


Son of Holmes

by Sam_Grey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Gray Harry Potter, Harry Potter Changes His Name, Horcruxes, John Watson is Not Gay, Magical Mycroft, Magical Sherlock, No one knows where Harry is, Oblivious John, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Powerful Harry Potter, Sherlock Deletes Stuff, Sherlock Holmes Adopts Harry Potter, Slight bashing, Smart Harry, Uncle Mycroft, it's really fluffy, not much, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-06-09 01:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Grey/pseuds/Sam_Grey
Summary: After being called for a case consisting of the murders of the inhabitants of Number Four Privet Drive, Sherlock finds a boy hidden under in a cupboard under the stairs. Eight years later, a mysterious boy comes to Hogwarts and takes the whole wizarding world by storm. Yet no-one can find Harry Potter anywhere. What's become of the Boy-Who-Lived, and just who is the Holmes prodigy?





	1. I Have A Case

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story that I'm posting at AO3, and I hope you guys like it!
> 
> The universe of Harry Potter is pushed forwards twenty years, so that Harry is a kid while SHerlock is an adult. Harry was born July, 2000; Voldemort was 'defeated' in 2001; Harry's Hogwarts letter arives in 2011.
> 
> The Sherlock characters here are younger than they are in the show, so they are less developed, and not the peopel that they will be yet. Unlike most fics, I am trying to create the character that they will be, and show how they end up the people that they are. John will not make his appearance until he does in canon, ie 2010.

The day started off like any other- calm, cool, and utterly dull. Sherlock turned onto his back on the small bed in his smaller flat and sighed. There hadn't been a case in over a week, and he had been thrown out of the morgue yesterday for attempting to smuggle a human arm to his flat for an experiment.

His flat was one huge room, except for the small bathroom next to the front door. The room was approximately twelve by ten feet and seven feet high, with the front door in the corner of one of the shorter sides. Next to the front door, and towards the center of the shorter wall was the door to the bathroom, also small, containing one sink with a small cabinet underneath next to the door, one toilet, next to the sink, and one shower at the farthest side of the room. It was all illuminated by light bulb in the ceiling, with a light switch next to the door. The whole room was a warm cream color, with tiles an off-shade of white on the floor. A dark blue towel was draped over the side of the shower wall.

The main room (from perspective of the front door) had a small table and a chair up against the longer wall to the left. The table was packed with beakers and chemicals whose purpose would evade anyone and everyone who didn't put them there. Beyond the table was a counter top with a drawer and cabinet beneath it. There was a microwave oven above the counter and a small cooker and oven next to it, concluding the rest of the space in that corner. Atop the cooker there was a small kettle with cold water in it just waiting to be heated up for tea. To the right of the door to the bathroom was a twin sized bed with an old worn out pillow and a light grey bedding was along the same wall as the doors, so it took up the remaining space in the corner. To the left of the bed was a small table with a lamp, atop the lamp was a human skull, claiming it as its own, and notebook and biro. The rest of the tiny table top was covered in newspaper clippings and bits of evidence from old cases. Next to the tiny table was a closet roughly three feet wide and five feet tall. Within one would find clothes thrown haphazardly across the floor of it with a few crumpled shirts and coats hanging up. The rest of the wall was taken up with a bookshelf with contents ranging from 'The Different Bees of South Africa' to 'Fifty Ways to Pickpocket Different Types of People.' There were two chairs, one leather and one brown, taking up the far wall in between the bookshelf and the cooker.

Leaning against the leather one was a violin and bow, both expensive and frequently used. On the seat of the brown chair was a laptop, new, but also frequently used. A round carpet was in the center of the room over the wooden paneled flooring. All around the carpet there were papers and envelopes, and knives and plastic bags, except in the very center of the carpet. Giving the impression that someone often sat there looking at the surrounding contents. Similar to the bathroom, there was a light switch next to the front door and a single light in the center of the ceiling, albeit it was a much brighter light. A small cobweb was in the corner above the bookshelf. A window on the far side of the room next to the chairs showed that dawn had come a few hours prior.

Sherlock stood and turned on the light be for going to turn the cooker on. After the water began to warm up, he took a quick shower, put on some black slacks and his favorite purple button down shirt, along with black shoes and socks. When he had finished getting ready he prepared his tea, turned off the cooker, and sat in his leather chair (his favorite) and looked out the slightly frosted window of the second story room, alowing the clay mug to warm his hands. Few people were outside, despite being in central London, and those that were seemed eager to head back in. He checked his new mobile phone for the date (it was one of the few things he let his annoying older brother give him. If Mycroft had his way, Sherlock would be living in a mansion with butlers and maids and the whole like), it was November 15, 2003. No wonder it seemed to be getting colder. He hadn't checked the date in around half a month. The time read 11:28 AM.

He switched off his phone and placed it on the armrest of the parallel chair and retrieved his laptop. Switching it on, quickly inputting his password, he went straight to a website he was making. He had decided a few days ago to call it 'The Science of Deductions' and had just started to describe all the different types of tobacco ashes, what type of cigarette they most often were in, and what the actual plants had in common. It was taking a while, but he started yesterday so he was nearly done.

A little more than an hour had passed when there was an abrupt knock on his door. Silently reprimanding himself for not hearing the new-comer's arrival, he tried to figure out who it was. The knock was urgent sounding, and the man (the breaths were very deep) on the other side was breathing heavily, suggesting he had run all this way up the stairs. Deciding on who it was, he closed and set the laptop to its previous position and walked to the door. As he opened it Sherlock called out, "Making house calls now, Sergeant?"

A young man with graying (more like silvering) black hair and a leather jacket with a shiny badge gave a small glare before addressing Sherlock, "I have a case."

That immediately shut him up. Sherlock beckoned the older man inside and took the laptop and phone off the brown chair and onto the floor before seating himself in the leather one. The Sergeant hesitated slightly before sitting down in the remaining chair as Sherlock placed the tips of his fingers together with his elbows on the armrests and leaning forward in his chair.

"There's this place in Surry, Little Whinging, it's only around an hour's drive from here, but the police department there is in way over their heads, so they called us," The man began, slightly unsure of himself, Sherlock nodded to him to continue.

"Well, there was a triple homicide, and they can't find any cause of death whatsoever. What's even more confusing, is the fact that the family was found around a breakfast table in their own house, in completely normal positions. The only way we know that the family isn't simply sleeping is the fact that they don't have a pulse, nor are they breathing.

"They were found by their neighbor when she went over with her son to play. They were taken in for questioning, but I really doubt they know any more than we do. I came to you because if anyone could figure out how it happened, you could."

Sherlock nodded, and was silent for a few long seconds, the Sergeant looked around apprehensively. The former finally looked up from his hands and at the latter, "Alright, I'll do it. I'll be there in an hour and fifteen minutes. What's the address?"

The Sergeant stood up and handed Sherlock a piece of paper, "Number Four, Privet Drive."

Sherlock stood a moment later and took the paper while leading the man to the door, "I'll see you there. Goodbye Lestrade."

"Um, see ya later, Sherlock," the man, Lestrade, said not completely surprised at the sudden farewell.

As soon as Lestrade was out the door Sherlock closed it and began to gather his things. Namely his mobile phone, his wallet, and a brand new black coat and blue scarf his mother had gotten him for the impending winter. Armed for the outside forces of nature, he walked out his door, locked the flat, headed down past the other rooms, and down the stairs. As soon as he was outside he hailed cab which immediately came to him and told the driver where to go.


	2. Number Four

The man smiled to himself. Harry Potter was dead. The man had heard that Lily Potter had a sister named Dursley. His informant told him (a ministry official, after being given a rather large amount of Veritaserum) that Harry Potter lived with his aunt and uncle had taken them in and were raising them at the address 'Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.' He was most pleased by the answer and chose to simply Obliviate the official after the information proved to be true.

The man had been overjoyed to find the three of them that morning, although he had thought that The-Boy-Who-Lived had black hair, not blonde, but the press must have gotten something wrong after only hearing about him. He hardly went to any interviews, after all. The man could finally live the rest of his life in peace. Even if people like him could no longer show their faces in public anymore (especially around Aurors), but he now knew that he had avenged his Master. All of the Potters, and now the two Dursleys, were dead, and that was enough.

The Death Eater was never seen again. He soon smuggled himself out of the country, and into America. Where he lived the rest of his days in the middle of a forest in Maine, avoiding all wizarding and muggle contacts. Using the rest of his gold to make himself comfortable, before sinking into the shadows. For what did he have to fear? Harry Potter was dead, and soon the whole world would know of what he did. They'd never track it back to him, and those fools might not even find out until the Boy-Who-No-Longer-Lived never went to Hogwarts.

(•▪•)

Sherlock stepped out of the taxi and onto the pavement and looked around, his piercing gaze penetrating all around him, as he payed the driver whom immediately left. All of the houses looked exactly the same, and if it weren't for the street names and house numbers, he could have gotten lost (Ha! Sherlock Holmes getting lost!). They all had the picturesque of the perfect house, with perfect flower beds, and perfect picket fence, and the same black or grey car in every driveway- it disgusted him.

Turning to the left, he saw the house he was to look at: Number Four. There was police tape tied to each end of the yard, connecting the fences on either end of the house. A brand new officer was at the line, with Lestrade. She had dark hair and skin, and she had just gotten out of her training. Second day on the job, if he was correct. She gave him an incredulous look as Lestrade beckoned him to follow him into the empty house. The inside was pristine and well kept. Though, the strange thing was that it was cleanest at around three feet high, a very strange thing to happen in a house- who would spend their time scrubbing a wall? He dismissed the thought as he entered the dining room.

As Lestrade had said during his visit, the family of three were sitting slumped in their seats, with a look of mild shock on their faces. The weird thing was that they were all in their night clothes (did they get up early, or did their jobs start late?). The first one was a large man. He had a burly mustache and almost no neck. Well kept suit: job was very important to him; made a lot of money. Newspaper on table: the page was on a drilling company competing with another; one of the company's names had a slight food smudge while the other didn't; he worked for Grunnings; likely CEO or something of that manner based on the expensive items all around the house. Only accessories were an old gold watch and his wedding band: watch was old, he'd have gotten a new one with his line of work, so likely sentiment; probably from late father (pictures only included wife son, and a large woman most likely his sister, and two grandparents who share a resemblance with the wife); wedding band- interesting, slightly dirty on the outside, and slightly clean on the inside; began cheating on the wife, most likely with secretary (anyone higher up wouldn't have bothered), but he doesn't have any feelings towards secretary- probably because he knows it's not going anywhere and just wants to get some excitement in his monotonous life. Rough knuckles: hits something on a regular basis; might go to the jym, but not the most likely due to his full-time job; could be abusing wife or son, but neither of them have any physical damage to speak of; most likely has a punching bag of some sort in garage.

The wife had straight blonde hair and a face that slightly resembled a horse. Based on the pampering of the small son (including weight) she was a house wife. Jewelry: all clean, including ring- doesn't know about the husband cheating on her. Makeup: quite a bit; cares for appearances; rather self-conscious. Very long neck: you only get that way from constantly looking above something (most likely spies on the neighbors judging by her height and the height of the fence). Tiny ring on smallest finger: something a girl would wear, likely a younger sister; based on the size it was given long ago; sister dead because of the minimal cleaning on it (and the obvious lack of pictures, but kept it out of sentiment; wasn't close with sister either, as there are no pictures of the two, except in a picture of the two in the background of a picture with the grandparents, but it might also be a close friend. No other family relations known.

The son had flat blonde hair similar to the mother, and nonexistent neck from the father. Wore an expensive play outfit hat had bits of food on it: spoiled to the point of getting anything he asked for; most important thing to both parents. Very large for his age: further supporting the theory of spoiled; strong; potential bully. Large knuckles: suggests frequent use of them in hitting things- not too hard, or they'd be injured slightly, but not too soft that it wouldn't be noticeable; most definitely a bully then; parents either don't know, or encourage it.

Things that don't make sense: cleanliness of the house; their death; the fact that they have been dead for approximately eight hours, but it is only just noon; the small red stains in the carpet and on the tile floor.

Because of the clean house, and the lack of cleaning residue on the wife's hands, they might have a maid, or a house cleaner, but they wouldn't need one because she stays home every day. So, who cleans their house if she doesn't? Might have been father, but he works in a full time job, and wouldn't have the time. Son doesn't, he's their golden child, he'll never do any work if his parents can help it. If they weren't muggles, he would have said house elf, as it would explain the obvious signs of abuse to someone, and a house elf are never noticed, so it would explain why none of them have seemed to be cleaning their own house, and no-one comes to do it for them. Perhaps there is someone else living in the house? A child based on the hight of the cleaning, about the same same size as the son, if not smaller. Maybe a niece or nephew that belonged to the wife's dead sister? Yes, that would be most likely, because if it was anyone else's, they probably would have given him to an orphanage, but because of the relation, they felt they had a sense of duty to the child to keep it with them. They might also be getting payed for keeping the child, but are using the bare minimum on the child, and giving it whatever the golden boy doesn't want. However, the file mentions nothing of anyone else living here, so the whole theory may be wrong.

Next, the unknown cause of death, and mysterious places to be at four in the morning: they could have been killed in their sleep, and then made to look like they were killed at the table. Most likely occurrence, as the husband's job starts at eight, so he'd go to the table in his work clothes, because he works six days out of seven, so he most likely only gets out early on Saturdays, and goes to work at the same time as usual. There seems to be no reason for their death, but after the wizarding war, he knew what dead people looked like after being hit with the third Unforgivable Curse, but that begs the question of why a muggle family (seemingly random too) would be killed with the Avada Kedavera curse, all three of them too!

The red stains were most likely blood stains, no, scratch that, they were blood stains (he's seen enough dead bodies to know what it looks like when people try to bleach it off). The blood stains are further proof of the nephew/niece existing and being abused, so it was now more likely than not. However, the file said there were four bedrooms, two for the son, one for the parents, and one guest bedroom. So where was this other child sleeping? On the couch? No, the cushions aren't pushed down in the way that suggests long-term use. Thay wouldn't put hime in a cupboard though, would they?

After having been int the room for four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, he determinded he had seen enough and turned to search the house for any other clues, with Lestrade following closely behind. He walked into the kitchen, nothing there was noteworthy except for the small stool in front of the sink that would help anyone the size of the son or slightly smaller reach in to clean the dishes, there was also a small sponge with a barely noticeable imprint of a child's hand. At this point, Sherlock would be surprised if there was no niece/nephew doing all the work, hidden in a cupboard. Now that he thought about it, there was a broom closet under the stairs with a lock on it, he noticed it when he entered the house.

Turning down the hall, he told Lestrade, "How old do you think the child is?"

Beleiving Sherlock to be talking about the son, he followed Sherlock down the hall and replied, "About three or four, why? Didn't you read the file?"

Turning to the cupboard, he put a smirk on his face as he unlocked it, and pulled it open revealing a small, unconscious boy, "No, I mean this one."

Lestrade stood outside the cupboard utterly flabbergasted, and gaped at Sherlock. The latter, meanwhile noticed something odd about the boy's head, and pushed back the bangs, revealing a thin jagged scar. As Sherlock froze at seing it, Lestrade fainted, falling to the floor with a dull thud, before waking up a moment later and standing up, casting weary glances between Sherlock and the boy.

"Curious," Sherlock said, regarding Lestrade in an new light, "You don't happen to be related to the Lestranges, do you?"

Lestrade then grew very pale and looked how many would regard a deer in the headlights. "N-no, why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason really," Sherlock stood and leaned casually on the wall, "I simply just happened to recall a rumor I heard long ago, that the Ancient and Most Noble House of Lestrange had a squib for a son."

Lestrade steeled himself up and looked Sherlock straight in the eyes, "Who are you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You know who I am, you just didn't know that I happened to go to Hogwarts, unlike you." Under his breath he added, "Though why I chose to spend seven years of my life with those imbisiles will forever evade me."

Chosing to let it slide, for now, Lestrade pointed to the boy lying in a fetal position, still unaware of the conversation around him, "I take it you know who that is then?"

Sherlock gave him a look of disbelief, "Of course I do! I'm not an idiot! He's only one of the most famous wizards in the world."

"Oh, yeah? Then what's his name?"

Sherlock's face went blank, eyes moving across the child's face, searching for recognition in his Mind Palace, "... Harry... Baker?"

"Potter, his name is Harry Potter," Lestrade nealt down to inspect the too small boy. "He's not doing too well though, I wonder why he's still asleep?"

Sherlock sat down next to the older man, "Probibly because he's been being abused and neglected for at least two years, being treated as a house elf, and has multiple broken bones."

Lestrade looked straight at Sherlock, just about ready to feint a second time that day, as the detective began to inspect the boy.


	3. Phone Calls

Lestrade gripped the cupboard doorway, firmly steadying himself. Sherlock ignored him and opted to see just how badly the too small boy was hurt.

He pulled off the boy's (Harry's, he reminded himself) shirt, "Broken left wrist with extensive bruising from bring dragged/thrown with it. Fractured right ulna, most likely from landing on something hard on it. Two dislocated ribs and one fractured. Mild concussion judging by the large bumb on the back of his head, probably hit it against the wall. Broken nose, looks like it was punched, evidence from the black eye. Extensive bruising all along torso, mostly on the back."

With most every word Lestrade became more and more pale, Sherlock actually became slightly concerned for him, not that he would ever admit it, though. His mouth was clamped shut and didn't seem like he was going to be saying anything any time soon.

"Lestrade, I hope you trust me to take care of this for you? You have no need to send anyone in to help him," Sherlock studied the man as his words pulled him out of his stupor.

"What? No. No, no, no, you can't just take him. We need to call an ambulance, before this gets any worse." Lestrade was shaking his head now and began to take out his flip phone when Sherlock stopped him.

"We can't call an ambulance, they'd take too long to get here (twelve minutes I believe), and we don't have enough time if you don't want him to have any lasting effects of this."

"Well, do you have any better ideas then?!" Lestrade all but shouted.

"Yes, we can call Mycroft." Sherlock seemed to think that answered the man just fine, and presumed to take out his phone, dialing a number it breakneck speeds. "Hello, brother dear. I seem to have a problem."

*(-)*

Mycroft had been having a very boring day. The American elections were a success (as he knew they would be), all the little people who thought they made a difference continued to think so, his brother hadn't gotten himself in the eyes of anyone important (yet), and all the routine paperwork had been finished the day before. As he was about to call his PA in (he really should get a new one soon, this one was incompetent) to send in any extra work that he may need to read/sign, when his mobile began to ring.

Checking the ID he was surprised to see it was Sherlock calling. His bugs told him that he had gone to a case earlier, one in Surrey, and had yet to return. He vaguely registered that a child of political importance had been living in Surrey for the past couple of years, but thought nothing of it.

"Hello, brother dear. I seem to have a problem."

Mycroft immediately felt that his day was about to become much more interesting. "Hello. What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?"

"It's not me who's in trouble, actually. I trust you know where I am?"

"Of course, you are currently in Surrey."

"You seem to correct. I'm in Surrey right now, the Dursley's house to be specific."

Very thrown off balance, Mycroft realized that his worse fear had been created (well one of them, anyway), Sherlock had met Harry Potter.

"Please tell me that you're not currently with Mr Potter."

"Depends on how you look at it. I'm with him, but he's not with us at the moment. By the way, could you send a car to pick little Harry up and bring him to the nearest hospital? Thanks."

And on that happy note, Sherlock hung up his phone. Mentally cursing his little brother, Mycroft dialed in another number, "Immediately send a car to Number Four, Privet Dr, Surrey. There should be two people for you to pick up. One, a young man with black hair, another a small child. Bring them to the nearest hospital, and do it quickly if you wish to keep your job."

Sighing, Mycroft leaned back in his outrageously comfortable office chair. This was going to be a long day.

*(-)*

Sherlock stood up with a snap, surprising Lestrade. The bumbling officer was rather worried by the fact that the young sociopath had a brother, who seemed to have quite a lot of power by the sound of things, and how horribly things could end up. He got up less quickly than the taller man, "So what now?"

"Now, we take young Harry, and wait for the car. It sould be here in around five minutes, if he stays punctual." Sherlock leaned down and gently picked up the small boy, surprising Lestrade. Sherlock moved out and stood next to the front door, so as not to attract unwanted attention by stepping outside, Lestrade stopping next to him, "My brother can get a team of Aurors to Obliviate all the officers who know of this event, so you don't need to worry about making a cover story for today's case, nor for my appearance with Harry. However, if you tell anyone about today, you won't have a job to get back to. Does it sound like a deal?"

Taken aback by his threatening tone, Lestrade quickly agreed, but added, "What are you planning on doing with him?"

The sleuth smirked, "That is for me to know, and you to find out.* Although if you keep to your side of the deal, you could come to my flat in a couple of days and I might just tell you."

Lifting an eyebrow at Sherlock's mysterious facade, Lestrade replied, "You had better have a good story."

Sherlock looked out of the window and saw a nondescript black car turning onto the street and he opened the door and wakked across the pavement towards it, everyone outside giving him a range of curious, frustrated and bewildered looks- he obviously ignored them all. Next to the car, the driver opened the door for him and Sherlock softly set Harry down and preped himself to follow.

Leaning his head back slightly, he connected his gaze with Lestrade's and said one thing before he left. One thing that would change both their lives from that moment on. Sherlock smirked and called, "We'll see you later!"

Almost jumping in, the car took of the moment the door was closed, leaving a helpless officer with a yard full of colleagues to satisfy.

The drive to the hospital was short and uneventful, there wasn't even a red light the entire way. Getting out with Harry in his arms, Sherlock walked briskly into the hospital. Going straight to the reception desk, he said, "This boy is severely malnourished and injured. He requires immediate assistance."


	4. Awoken

When he woke up in a bed, he knew something was wrong. He didn't have a bed. Only a mass of blankets to curl up in. Of course he knew it was a bed, because he had felt what his uncle's and cousin's beds felt like when he fixed them up and changed the sheets. Staying absolutely still, as not to attract any attention to himself, he listened.

There was a soft buzz of electricity, and the room smelled like the disinfectant that he used in the kitchen and bathrooms, there was also bright light showing through his eye lids. He suddenly noticed that his arms and chest felt really stiff and fuzzy, and he realized that he wouldn't be able to move them even if he tried. His head also had some sort of pressure on it, as if he had a blindfold on his forehead.

This really confused him. Where was he? Why wasn't he being yelled at to get up and make breakfast? It was a Saturday, if he got his days right, so why didnxt anyone call him. And what were they doing to him? Desiding to risk it, he opened his eyes.

Light immediately assulted his eyes., he forced them closed, despite that if anyone was here, they would notice this change very quickly. He, however, didn't hear anyone react, so he slowly opened his eyes, this time taking it slowly. He was in a white room, the lights above him were glaring, and the electrical buzz was coming from the right of him, from many big machines, almost all of whom were connected to him in some way. He realized that the reason that the reason that he couldn't move his arms or torso was because they were wrapped up tightly. His arms were in casts, and he had bandages all along his chest, and he guessed that this must be what was on his head too.

Looking around the room once again, he noticed a man sitting in a slightly less illuminated corner of the room on one of the chairs to his left. The man made no noise, in fact, the only reason he knew that the man was there was because he could see the man's chest moving. What was most unnerving about the man however, was the steely blue-green eyes that seemed to bore into him, picking him apart, piece by piece untl all of is secrets were revealed. He wore a dark black overcoat, a blue scarf, black trousers and black shoes. He didn't blend in with the wall, now that he thought about it. The man blinked, and sat slightly staighter, as if to ready himself for something difficult.

The three-year-old bit his lip, his many questions on the tip of his tongue, but he remained quiet for fear of being hit or locked up. The man seemed to read his mind, for he said, "You needn't worry about getting hurt here, say whatever you want." After a second of hesitation, the man slowly added, "My name is Sherlock Holmes. What is your name?"

A slightly surprised expression passed over his face. That was a first, normally no-one would ever ask anything of him directly. They'd ordinarily ask is aunt or uncle, and then pass judgments of their own. With a small smile he replied, "My name is Freak. I think it sounds a bit diff 'rent, kinda like yours, sir." His smile turned to a frown though, when he saw that Mr Holmes's face turn absolutely furious and stood up. He felt scared, maybe he wasn't supposed to say that about Mr Holmes's name. Was he going to be hit? He shrunk into the bed he was on and braced himself by closing his eyes.

"No. Don't do that. I'm not going to hurt you."

He slowly opened his eyes, Mr Holmes was pacing the room, but he had a soft smile directed towards him. Feeling slightly comforted, he asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Yes, but don't worry. It isn't your fault." Mr Holmes stopped and glared at the wall, "You see, your name isn't 'Freak'. Your name is Harry, and 'freak' is a very mean word that they shouldn't have called you."

Harry (apparently) was very confused. Was it true that his name wasn't really 'Freak'? It would make sense that his aunt and uncle would do something mean like that, but why wouldn't they call him by his real name? He had always thought it was either that or 'Boy', but he knew that wasn't a real name, so he settled on 'Freak'. But maybe Mr Holmes was tricking him. No, Mr Holmes was one of the first people to ever be nice to him, why would he lie? He wouldn't, Mr Holmes was telling the truth.

"What do you remember last?" Mr Holmes was looking at Harry now, his face a neutral blank. Mr Holmes sat down on the chair closest to the bed.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, "Th' last thing I rember was yes' erday."

A flicker of annoyance passed over Mr Holmes's face and he elaborated, "What about yesterday do you remember last?"

Harry nodded to show his understanding, "Yes' erday started like it always does: Aunt P' tunia shouting at me t' make bekfast. After bekfast I did all my chores- picking up Dudley's toys; weeding the garden; cleaning the kitchen. Then I made lunch and I got t' eat at the table! After I cleaned the dishes I was sent t' my cupboard and I spent the day in there reading some of Dudley's new books. When I was let out t' make supper I had finished two of them," Harry was smiling proudly before it turned into a frown.

"I made supper for everyone, and got the chicken done really good. 'Xcept when I brought it t' the table I tripped over Dudley's foot and spilled it all over the floor. Aunt P' tunia and Uncle Vernon started yelling at me t' clean the foor and I did. Uncle Vernon was really mad at me, his face was turning purple. Just when I finished cleaning up, he grabbed my, " he looked at his arms and splayed out his thumbs, making an 'L' shape, "left 'and and threw me at the wall. I landed on my right arm and it made a loud crack sound."

Harry felt like he would cry soon, but he knew that he couldn't stop now, or else Mr Holmes would get upset. He didn't want to upset the first person who was nice to him.

"Uncle Vernon told me I really messed up and that if I wasn't born then I would not have ruined the food. He hit my head really hard, and when I fell onto the floor, I hurt my head on the side of the coffee table. I saw coloured spots and Uncle Vernon told me that I had better thatnot break the table, or else I would of wish that I wasn't born." Harry started to cry, but he kept his voice even, lest Mr Holmes (who was glaring at the floor) notice.

"He kicked me in the stomach, and then when I curled up to save my head and stomach. He told me that I was weaks for crying and he wouldn't stop until I stopped. I don't rember too much after that, because my back was hurting too much. After that I woke up here."

The silence that followed was profound. After a while though, Mr Holmes replied, "Thank you for telling my this. I know it must have been difficult to do."

Harry looked at Mr Holmes. His eyes were shiny. Was he crying? That really confused Harry, why would he cry if he didn't get hurt? Or maybe he did a long time ago and was sad that Harry reminded him about it. That could happen, he guessed. Harry decided to ask.

"Are you okay? Did you have somethin' like this happen t' you?"

Mr Holmes flinched very slightly, but looked mostly surprised. He replied, " How did you know that?"

"Well, you looked sad 'bout what I told you, but you didn't get hurt. So I thought that maybe something like this happened to you and I made you think of sad mem' ries."

Mr Holmes looked impressed, but that wasn't right. Why would he be impressed for noticing something? He really liked Mr Holmes

Harry was about to ask if he would like to be his friend, when a man with an umbrella walked into the room.


	5. Where He's Going

Mycroft called his PA to his office and told her to cancel all of his meetings and appointments for the next two days, not that anything particularly important was planned. The most important thing happening isn't until Wednesday next week, so he had four days before he needed to get back to work.

Mycroft marched out of his office and strode to his car, quickly as possible without arousing suspicion. His car was solid black and looked ordinary, except for the fact that it likely cost a great deal more than most other cars. He drove to the hospital in Surrey as quickly as possible (while within the speed limit, of course) and arrived a little over an hour later.

He sauntered into the hospital and was granted the room number Mr Potter was in. He stopped outside the room however, and leaned against the wall next to the door.

Mycroft opened Mr Potter's file that was given to him upon entry. It was worryingly empty. No doctor's notes, no check-ups, no visits whatsoever. However, there were numerous injuries that had been accumulating over time, most notably the scores of small scars (presumably from cuts or scrapes) along his back and arms. Both arms had been broken and healed incorrectly previously (remarkable that it had healed at all, considering that he had not gotten a cast or splint), and currently had a broken left wrist and a sprained right radius. He had two dislocated ribs, and one fractured one. There were many bruises all along his torso. And had a slight concussion that would leave no lasting effects. The only long-term differences might be some minor irritation in his arms from the incorrect healing, but it would likely disappear with time.

His brother (surprisingly) stayed with Mr Potter the entire time, and was in the room currently waiting for the boy to wake.

Deciding there was no time like the present, Mycroft closed the file and pushed himself off from the wall. He walked the four two metres to the door and swung said object open. The moment he stepped foot inside, he stopped.

Mr Potter was awake (sitting up, no less), and his brother perched next to him. Both staring at him like he was a flying turtle with a snake for a head.

The three-year-old nervously broke the silence, "Mr Holmes?"

To say the least, Mycroft was severely taken aback. Incredulity was his main emotion, for how could the boy know who he is when they had never met?

Sherlock smirked at him, having found his brother surprised about something, and getting to observe the elder's reactions.

"It's alright Harry, that is my older brother, Mycroft Holmes."

Realization that Mr Potter had been speaking to his little brother and not him, nonetheless surprised him. Sherlock was only twenty years old, and he responded to someone calling him 'Mr Holmes' (even if it was a kid)? What was his life turning into? Sherlock smirked and turned to Mr Potter, catching the child's gaze, "Mycroft mostly goes by 'Mr Holmes' though, so you can just call me 'Sherlock'."

Mr Potter's face positively it up, "Thank you, Sir!" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I mean, Shuh-Sherlock!"

Sherlock smiled back. Mycroft was utterly thrown in loops. Since when did Sherlock smile at anyone? Much less someone he met only (most likely) a few minutes ago? If it wasn't for the conversation topic, and the fact that Sherlock had never met Lily's son, Mycroft would have guessed that they had known each other the entire time.

Not wanting to be the subject of verbal abuse, as he knew he was soon to be, Mycroft walked across the room to the end of Mr Potter's bed, and said what he was planning to from the beginning, "So what am I going to do with you?"

The boy stiffened at his words, though he only had a few theories as to why. It was Sherlock who responded, however, "We can't let the Ministry have him."

"Obviously. They'd likely have a war if they discovered what happened to their 'Savior'. We can't let what's occurred today become public knowledge."

"He can't go to a foster care, or orphanage, either. We wouldn't be able to keep track of him."

"We could give him to a trusted family, or friend."

Mycroft noticed that Mr Potter didn't appear to feel upset whatsoever about not being in the conversation, despite being the topic of interest.

"No."

Mycroft tilted his head at his brother, who was staring resolutely at the bedpost nearest him. "Well, where do you think he should go? With you?"

Mycroft had meant the last part as a joke, but Sherlock's lack of retort suggested that the latter was serious about taking the boy. Mycroft didn't think he could handle so many strange things in one day.

"You're a kid, Sherlock, you can't raise a child!"

"I'm not a kid, I'm nearly twenty-one, and why can't I?" Sherlock stood up, to look Mycroft in the eyes. Mr Potter watched the exchange in fascination.

"Why do you want to?" Mycroft voiced his confusion.

"He's Lily's son, Mycroft. You of all people know that what happened. I have to do this. For her and for Harry."

The last part was nearly whispered, and Mycroft suddenly knew why Sherlock was so adament about why he wanted to keep Harry.

"Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock," Mycroft gave Sherlock a hard look.

"He'll be my disadvantage then!" Sherlock snapped, leaving Mycroft stunned.

After a minute of silence in which one brother nearly held his breath, and the other seethed, Mycroft breathed the awaited words, "I guess I'll get the paperwork then."


	6. Questions And Answers

Previously:

"I guess I'll get the paperwork then."

"But before I leave, Sherlock, Mr Potter can't stay with you until I deem your flat child safe and he gets proper sleeping arrangements. The boy may stay at my house until then. Do you agree?" Mycroft said this more like a proclamation than a question, but waited for his brother to reply nonetheless.

Sherlock bit back a sigh, but instead of answering Mycroft, he turned to Harry.

"How does that sound to you, Harry?"

Harry looked slightly surprised at being asked his opinion (still not something he was used to) but recovered quickly, "Um, yes? I mean, yes."

"Mycroft turned towards Sherlock, "Harry shall be staying in the hospital for around two more days before he will be allowed leave, and assuming that you keep him company the whole time, you won't start cleaning up until then either. So I'll have the paperwork ready by the time he's out of the hospital, and once your flat is safe, you can take him home. How does that sound to you, Brother Mine?"

Sherlock looked slightly self-conscious when he replied, "Fair enough."

"And do you want to pay the hospital bills, or shall I?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to spoil your chance to help little orphan boys, now would I?" Sherlock, feeling slightly insulted by what Mycroft had implied, snapped.

Seemingly satisfied, Mycroft nodded and then walked out of the room. Sherlock gave a breath of releif at his absence, and leaned forward in his seat, slouching.

Harry broke the silence, "So 'm I gonna live with you now?"

Looking up, with his head resting on his hands, elbows on his knees, Sherlock's face softened, "Yes. Would that be alright with you?"

Harry smiled, then frowned, "But what 'bout Uncle Vernon 'nd Aunt P' tuna?"

Sherlock took Harry's hand and rubbed it softly, knowing that it would calm him, "Don't worry, you will never have to see them again. Nor your cousin."

"Really? Wow!" Harry beamed up at Sherlock, then looked rather contemplative, "Does that mean that you're gonna be m' new dad?"

Sherlock's eyes went a little wide at that, but soon broke into a grin, "I suppose I am."

Harry's mouth made a comical 'o' shape for a moment, which caused Sherlock to let out a breath of laughter, "So d' I call you 'Dad' or 'Father'? 'm I gonna get m' own room? Does that make your brother m' new uncle? 'm I gonna get a mom too, or is it just you? Can I get a toy?!"

Harry's expectant stare afterwards told Sherlock that he expected all his questions answered, which truly befuddled him, "Er, you may call me 'Father,' you sleep in the same room as I do, yes, he is your uncle, no, it's just me, and you may get toys if you're good."

Sherlock let down a finger on his hand for each question he answered, making sure he didn't miss any.

Seeing that all the questions he asked were answered, Harry bit his lip before asking one that had been on his mind, "Who was Lily?"

Sherlock looked surprised at the question, but it was soon replaced with pity and affection, "Lily was your mother. I supose that your relatives didn't tell you that, did they?"

"No. Did you know her?"

A wistful expression graced his features, "Yes, I knew her. She was a very good friend of mine when I was at school. She and my friend Severus helped me through a very dificult time of my life. She was pure, innocent. A true lily."

Harry looked at Sherlock in awe, loving that he was hearing more about his mum. Just at that moment, however, the nurse came in and noticed that Harry was awake, "Good, you're up! Let's make sure that everything is going well for you. You'll be back on your feet in no time at all!"


	7. Reborn, Remade, Renamed

A few hours after the nurse first came and an hour after the nurse left, Sherlock received a call from Mycroft. The Holmes and his new... son... had mostly been getting to know each other. Or at least things that they enjoyed doing in their free time in Harry's case. Reluctantly, Sherlock answered, knowing it would be important. Harry gave him a curious look, but didn't speak as the elder picked up his mobile.

"Yes, Mycroft?" Sherlock sighed.

_ "I've spoken to Amelia  **(Bones)** about the situation, and we agree that it's for the best that we don't allow the public to be aware of the situation concerning Mr Potter. As it would cause panic and riots towards his treatment, and we cannot guarantee that it wouldn't split up the already shaky government here." _

"I agree, brother. Should we disguise him and change his name, as well? So as to assure that no-one discovers the truth?"

_ "I believe that would be for the best. He may choose his name, but tell me it the moment you choose it, as it will be needed to complete the process." _

"Of course. Is there more for you to tell me? Or are you finished?" Sherlock wanted to get back to speaking with Harry, as they seemed to have a lot in common.

_ "Almost. Before I end this call, you should know that both Amelia and I shall be visiting your flat at random intervals to ensure that all is settling, well." _

"Understood. I'll text you the name momentarily."

_ "Alright. If you must. Farewell, brother." _

"Bye." Sherlock disconnected the call and turned again to the patiently waiting boy.

"Alright." Sherlock clapped his hands together softly. "Mycroft thinks that we should change your name to something cooler. What do you think?"

"Yes!" Harry had been opening up to Sherlock more and more, as they got to know each other better (they both loved the colour blue), "My other name was so normal, what was it again? Harry J...?"

"James Potter," Sherlock finished for him. After all, he had only learnt of his name a few hours ago. "We only need to change the 'harry' part a little bit, as it's normally short for something longer, like Harrison, Harold, Hadrian, or Haraldr. Do you like any of those ones?"

Harry adopted a thoughtful look before deciding, "I like th' last one, it sounds cooler than th' other ones."

They both shared a smile, then Sherlock continued, "Alright then, so do you want to change 'James' into something else, then choose the name that you want to be called, or do you want to keep 'James'?"

Harry cocked his head to the side, and pursed his lips together, "I wanna change 'James' t' somethin' else, and get another name too. James is too boring!"

Sherlock had a small smile on his face at that and nodded, "Okay, so do you know what you want to change it to, or sould I list names for you to choose from?"

"List 'em. And make sure that they're cool!"

Sherlock chuckled, "Of course! How about William?"

Harry mock glared at him, causing Sherlock to smile and put his hands up in surrender, "I'm kidding! How about Salazar, or Severus?"

"I can't be called Sev'rus, that's your friend's name! Silly!" Harry laughed at him.

Sherlock was surprised that Harry had remembered that, "What about Elwood, or Rowen?"

"Those sounds like tree names." Harry pouted.

"Okay, how about Loki, or Arken?"

"Ooo, those sound real cool... um... I'll choose... er... Arken!" Sherlock and Harry laughed at his indecision.

"Now for the name that we're going to call you. Ready?" Sherlock leaned forward a bit in his seat.

"Yup!" Harry was smiling.

"Okay... What do you think of Cairo, or Emrys?"

"Mm... no."

"Asher? Or Drake?"

Harry shook is head.

"You're a tough one, aren't you?"

Harry grinned, "Yup!"

"Well, I've got a special feeling about these ones- how about Slade, or Zen, or Blythe?"

"I want... umm... Slade!" He looked at Sherlock intently. "What's all my names toget'er?"

"The whole of it would be Haraldr Slade Arken Holmes. Do you like it?"

"Yes! Don' you have t' tell Uncle Myc'oft it too now?" Sherlock nodded and typed on his phone for a moment before he continued, "What does Myc'oft mean?"

Sherlock was slightly surprised at the question but replied quickly. "Mycrof roughly means 'mouth of a stream by a small enclosed field,' and Sherlock means 'fair haired'."

Harry was satisfied before asking, "What does 'Slade' mean?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Slade means 'child of the valley,' and considering that you were born in a small valley, the name is rather fitting. Especially since all three of our names come from Old English."

Slade nodded. "D' you think that m' name's too long?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose, "Of course not. Both Mycroft and I have four words in our names, though your name sounds much more interesting than mine." At Slade's inquisitive look, the elder Holmes elaborated, "Mine Is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. There's only one 'cool' name in it." Sherlock feigned jealousy.

Slade giggled then frowned. "Didn' you say Will'am in th' list for 'James'?"

Slade was once again surprised at the impressed look his new father gave him. Sherlock thought about how much he wasn't going to regret teaching the boy everything he could.


	8. Phobia

True to Mycroft's promise, Slade was allowed leave two days later, Sherlock said he was always right about these kinds of things. He still had to wear the cast on his left arm for a few days more, but his wrist, head, and ribs were much better- the doctor told them that Slade was healing much faster thn average.

Mycroft had just arrived to the room to lead his new nephew to the private car, but when the younger Holmes held out his hand to help Slade get out of the bed, the boy flinched away.

Sherlock immediately looked concerned and retracted his hand. Mycroft observed.

"I'm not going to harm you. You know that, don't you?" The worry was leaking into the young adult's voice, uncharacteristic of him.

Slade hesitated, "Y-yeah. I-I know that. I jus'- I don't-" He looked uncertain on what to say. He looked down at his hands.

Mycroft's eyes widened minutely. "Haphephobia..." He murmured.

Sherlock's head snapped to his brother, "But- he... he can't." For once words failed Sherlock. He gathered himself together and tried again.

"Haraldr." Slade looked up. "What's wrong?"Sherlock prefered to gather his own evidence, rather than rely on what others told him what to believe.

Slade thought about what to tell the only people who were ever nice to him. "I really don't like thought anybody touchin' me... It's scary and hurts."

Sherlock's face became one of sorrow, ignoring the grammar mistake like he always did. He did indeed have haphephobia (Fear of being touched) then. He could see why he did, too. He faced it like the Holmes he was though. "Alright then. No-one will touch you if you don't like it. If we ever need to though, if you're in trouble, you have to let us help, okay?"

Slade put on a brave face. "Okay."

Sherlock put put a small smile on his face, "Great! Can you get up on your own then?"

Slade nodded and Sherlock took a few steps back. He gripped the small railing on the side of his bed and pulled himself to the edge, feet off the side. He put his weight forward and hopped off the cot, wobbling a little. Slade steadied himself on the bedside table. Sherlock and Mycroft were watching from a a pace or two away, ready to help if need be. "See? I can do it myself!"

This brought a smile to all their faces and Mycroft spoke for th second time. "Alright. I'll inform my house staff not to touch him when we arrive and make sure none of my employees ever do either. Now then, I believe that you, Brother Mine, have a flat to clean and manage. Notify me if you are in need of anything, and tell me when you are finished and I'll bring him to your flat."

Sherlock accompanied them to the car, neither brother going within two feet of Slade, so as not to make him uncomfortable or upset. Thanks to Mycroft (not that Sherlock would ever say it) they got the now father and son successfully out of the hospital without incident.

They stopped momentarily by the black car's door so Slade and Sherlock could say their goodbyes for now.

Sherlock kneeled in front of Slade so they could speak eye-to-eye. "Don't worry about anything. You'll only need to stay with your uncle for a few days until I could get my flat cleaned properly. Okay? And if anything happens to you, I'll make sure Mycroft'll never forget it."

Slade giggled at the small empty threat. "I'm gonna be good Father. Nothing 'ill happen."

They grinned at each other and Sherlock stood up, and lowly whispered, "I meant every word."

Mycroft nodded his head once, slowly, "I know."

Sherlock turned yet again to his son. "You'll see me again in no-time!"

Slade smiled and nodded. "Yup!"

Mycroft got in the back seat of the car to the left and Sherlock held the door for Slade on the right. The doors closed with a thud and drove away, Slade and Sherlock waving at each other though the window until the car turned a little ways down the road. Sherlock had a sudden feeling that this must be similar to how Mummy must have felt when they said goodbye at Kings Cross that first time. He shook away the memory and hailed a cab, which stopped for him immediately. He had a flat to clean.


	9. An Hour and a Half

The car drive was mostly spent in silence, both occupants opting to looking out the tinted windows or, in Slade's case, squinting, ( _I wonder if he needs glasses)_  and enjoy the country side pass by. They exchanged a few phrases, but for the most part kept to themselves. An hour and half later, they had passed London and arrived at a house near the middle of the city. It was a smaller house, so Slade guessed that his uncle lived alone too. After all, if he didn't then he would have a house as big as his relatives' one. It looked nice with clean paint and soft colors. It had one floor and only a few windows.

Uncle Mycroft stepped out of the car and opened Slade's door for him, but stepped aside so Slade could get out on his own. He hopped out and Uncle closed the door for him, leading the small boy to the door and the car drove off without a word. Slade turned around at the sound of the car leaving and noticed that even though they were near the middle of the city, the street was empty. His uncle's lips quirked upward into a small smile and he opened the door.

Both stepped inside and the eldest Holmes turned on the lights and closed the door behind himself. "This, as you might have guessed is my house," He led them down the hallway and into a large room, "This is the main sitting room, to the right is the kitchen, and the bathroom." He pointed to the door on the right wall, the kitchen, and the door against the wall where the hallway ended, the bathroom.

"To the right are the bedrooms, including my room and the guest room, which will be yours." The door parallel to the kitchen was his uncle's and the one by the hallway was pointed out as his own (he  _loved_  that he was getting his own room!).

"That is the dining room, no food is allowed outside of that room and the kitchen, and then there is the study, which is the only room you cannot go in." Mycroft pointed to the rooms opposite the bathroom, the one towards the right was the dining room, and the one near the bedrooms was the study.

There was a table with a television placed in between the two doors, across from the hallway with two comfy looking chairs and a coffee table in between them. a small grand piano was tucked into the corner between the dining room and the kitchen.

Slade gave a small smile and whispered, "I knew it."

Mycroft looked down at him, "Knew what?"

Slade blushed a little bit, "Oh, when we got here I jus' guessed tha' you was here all by yourself." He looked down at the floor, slightly nervous about what his uncle thought about him.

Mycroft's eyebrows went up a bit and cocked his head to the side, did he underestimate someone? That hadn't happened in  _years_. Never mind that he was a child, Mycroft knew that he was going to be great one day. He knew that it was foolish to put this kind of faith in a boy, but a  _three-year-old_  already making deductions? Even he didn't start that early, and he had the help of his mother when he started.

"I'm impressed, most people don't think like you do."

Slade's head shot up at the compliment, a beaming smile on his face, "Thank you."

Mycroft inclined his head, "I'm only stating the obvious, you have a lot of potential."

If it was possible, Slade's smile grew even bigger. Mycroft smiled and walked over to the boy's room, opening the door. "I'm afraid that I didn't know what you liked, but I put some clothes in the drawers that should be your size, and a few books on the shelf, as my brother told me that you like to read." Slade nodded. "Good, I included a children's dictionary in case you didn't know what a word meant."

"What's a di'tionary?"

Mycroft's eyes shone with amusement, "It's a book with every word in it, and it says what the word means. It's in alphabetical order, meaning that it starts at 'A,' and ends at 'Z.' Do you have any questions?"

Slade was still beaming, and Mycroft supposed that his cheeks must hurt by now, with how long he's been holding it. "Nope!"

"Alright, I'll be in my study then, just nock on the door if you need me, and we'll be having diner in two hours. No going in my room without permission, and you don't need to worry about being too loud, as the study has soundproof walls and door. No breaking things."

Slade nodded, "Okay!"

Mycroft smirked and walked into his study, looking back at the little boy who had begun looking at the books on the shelf. None of them were very difficult, ranging from books made for children his age, such as nursery rhymes and picture books, to small novels for ten-year olds. Depending on which ones he read, Mycroft assumed that he could learn a lot about Slade. Of course at the foot of the bed he had put a small chest full of blocks and other playthings, but he didn't put nearly as much thought into those. He closed the door behind him and sat behind his desk.

Now that he was alone, he activated a camera connected to the second computer screen he had that held live footage of the other rooms, so he could keep an eye on his nephew while he worked.

Mycroft called his PA and told her to send all the paperwork he had missed to his personal computer and waited a few minutes for it to come in. During the wait, Mycroft glanced at the security footage of Slade, and was very surprised. He wasn't looking at any of the books he picked out, nor playing with the toys. He was reading the dictionary!

Nothing about him seemed to add up. He was very different from any other three-year-old he knew of (albeit not many), and seemed more intent on learning than having fun or playing. He was eerily reminded of Eurus, but quickly put that thought from his mind. Slade wouldn't end up like that. He'd make sure of it.

The paperwork came in and Mycroft distracted himself with it for around an hour, working diligently and doing much more than he ordinarily could in such a time span.

After he had done around half of it Mycroft saw movement in the cameras. He had noticed that Slade had abandoned the dictionary in the 'P' section and moved from his room and into the main room. He was currently sitting at the piano and gingerly pressing to keys, he clearly had never used one if his position and posture were anything to go by. As time went by, Slade pressed more of the keys and seemed to develop a rhythm. Was he teaching himself piano? He activated the sound so he could hear if there was any coherent tune.

The piano wasn't very loud, as he wasn't pressing the keys very hard, and the tempo was very slow, but he easily recognized 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.' How did he learn to play? There wasn't any music out (not that he actually had the sheet music for such a plebian song), he hadn't needed it to play something he wanted to in years. But here Slade was. Playing as though it was second nature to him. He may be the age of a toddler, but his mental age far surpassed this.

He figured it had been long enough and Mycroft decided to leave the room. It was already nearly five o'clock.

Slade absently heard his uncle's study door close behind him and he looked around  _his room._ He couldn't believe it! He got his own bed, his own drawers, a toy chest like the one Dudley had (but his was actually  _bigger!_ ), and best of all- he got his own books!

The ones he normally read were torn apart or had something spilled on it. He had read very small books about the alphabet and small words or phrases, but some of these books were as big as a couple of his fingers put next to each other!

He took one of the bigger books down (it had a cool drawing of a brown owl on it) so he could see if he could read it. These books were very clean and neat. He almost didn't want to open them. As he went to the page with a little '1' on the bottom, he realized that he he only understood a couple of the words on the page.

Slade put the book back where he found it and picked up the book that had a big word on it that started with a 'D' and a few pictures of letters and numbers. This should be the dictionary then. He wanted to know what all words meant so he won't be confused again. If he did, then maybe his father and uncle would be even  _more_  proud of him! That would be awesome!

Slade plopped down against the side of his bed and opened to the first page. There was a big letter 'A,' so this was the start. The first word was 'aardvark,' and he soon realized that it would be very hard to learn all the words. There were even  _more_  big words  _about_  the words he didn't know! Slade decided to skip the words that had lots of big words in the meaning of the word. This was very slow going, and he got bored after around an hour. He was used to doing boring things for a long time, but he was barely at the 'C's! Slade decided to just look at the small pictures that came up once in a while and look at the word that went with it, so it'd be easier to understand.

This went much faster and after another thirty minutes he was about half way done. He didn't understand much and he didn't learn much, but Slade liked the pictures. He was in the 'P' section when he was a picture of the big thing that was in the sitting room. The picture said 'Piano,' and he sounded out the word to himself the way it said to in the book. The picture showed someone sitting on the bench in front of the piano with their hands on the strange buttons (keys, he read), seemingly random fingers pushing down.

He wondered what it did. The dictionary probably said exactly what it did, but Slade wanted to find out for himself. He set the book down, open on his bed and left the room and walked towards the piano.

The picture showed someone pushing the keys, so he knew that they wouldn't break or anything. He climbed up into the seat and put his hands on the keys in the middle of piano, one finger on each white key.

Slade slowly pushed down on one of the keys and he was surprised when it made a long, pretty sound. He almost expected his uncle to rush into the room saying how he bothered his work, before he remembered that Uncle Mycroft had said that Slade didn't need to worry about any noise he made, as long as he didn't break anything.

Slightly reassured, Slade pressed on more of the keys. He was reminded of some of the nursery songs that would come on the telly when Dudley was watching and pressed the same notes again. He heard the bit of the song again. Slade kept playing more of the notes until he heard the next part of the song. As he learnt of each new part of the song, he played the parts all together, so he wouldn't forget it.

After a few minutes of experimenting with the keys, he decided he had figured out the song. Slade began to play the whole thing on a loop so he could play it faster each time he attempted it.

Without warning the study's door opened and Uncle Mycroft entered the sitting room. Startled, Slade lowered his hands from the piano and looked down.

"Why did you stop?"

Slade's eyes widened and he smiled up at his uncle. Uncle Mycroft gave a small smile back, "Was that your first time playing a piano?"

Slade nodded. "Yes, sorry tha' I didn' play too good."

Uncle Mycroft's eyebrows went up, incredulous. "Didn't play well? You've learnt how to play it far faster than anyone I've ever seen! And you're so young too! I wouldn't expect this from most people five  _times_  your age!"

Slade giggled at his uncle. "You're silly!"

Mycroft's eyes widened and he had the irrational feeling to ruffle up his nephew's hair. He knew not to though and settled on rolling is eyes instead.

"I'm going to prepare diner, would you like to help?" Mycroft changed the subject.

Now it was Slade's turn to look disbelieving. " _I'm_ going to be helping  _you?_ " He was used to doing all on his own, much less getting help. To be the one helping someone else cook seemed absolutely bizarre.

"That  _is_  what said." Uncle Mycroft remarked drily.

Slade let out another small giggle, "Yes, I wanna help."

Mycroft's lip curled upward, "Good."


End file.
